Fort Worth weekly gazette. [volume] (Fort Worth, Tex.) 1882-1891, 1887-11-04


self with the words of Sir Henry Mon
Grief, who tells Us that "It is humbling
to think that the strongest affections
which have perplexed, or agitated, or de-
lighted US from our birth will, in few
yesrs, cease to have any existence on the
earth; and that all the ardour which they
have kindled will be as completely extin-
guished and forgotten as II they had never
been.
The vicar was one OF those simple
minded men who deem all they meet as
unsophisticsted as themselves; but for
such as this Hussar he had no words.
"Musgrave may have changed" said
he, with bitter sigh. "The fancy of a
man so young, amid the temptations Of
garrison life, is apt to be soon ensnared
and misdirected."
GA fancy, but not love-" said Mrs.
Brendon, who vas true to her early ro-
mantle instincts, and like the doctor,
knew as much about garrison life IS of
the unknown tongues. "Perhaps he hSs
been unable to face the opposition Of his
father"
"But g. man shall leave his father and
mother and clesve unto his wife," said
the vicar, sententiously. "The man has
been amusing himself, that Is ALL"
II so, it was cruelty "double distilled"
for with al her innate merriment aud
brightness, little Amy Brendon was girl
who could not comprehend even the mere
rudimeIts of Irritation, and Horace Mus
grave had carried her far beyond them.
At last there came day which Amy
never forgot.
No letters had come from Horace in
answer to the many she wrote; ard to
one almost despairing and upbraiding let
ter she had posted with prayer and 8
sigh, she now, with some new confidence,
awaited reply. It seemed impossible
for any man to omit doing so, if grain
of humanity remained in his heart.
TIE clock in the old church tower
near the v,carage tolled the hour OF a
q, m.
1t was sn autumnal morning, and she
could hear the signing of the wind as it
swept through the thinned foliage OF the
ancient trees that grew thereby; and the
very sound made the girl sad and
thoughtful, recalling scriptural passages
Of her fathers sermons, telling that the
time will come when we too "shall fade as
a leaf the wind has taken away. All that
thou hast shall fall down IS the leaf
falleth from the vine," and that we shall
soon be Gas the oaks when they cast their
leaves"
Most of the night she had been tossing
restlessly on her pillow, and her thick
dark hair, rough and unruly rather than
smooth or silky, was all disheVelled and
tumbIed about her shoulders.
She must have dropped asleep after
time, for the church cleck awoke her
from feverish dream to the knowledge
that her brief term of half-consciousness
had rot been much more than half an
hour.
How weary in heart and worn in spirit
she felt. How cad, and dark, and long
the time seemed.
Four hours must yet elapse ere the
post arrived in that rather seQuestered
nook at Oxfordshire. Horace must reply
to that last appeal, and let her know the
Worst-the very worst, Whatever it was!
Four hours-would they ever pass?
What could mis- inattentiop mean? Did
it arise from Sickness, an accident, jeal-
ousy of some imaginary person, of faith
lesspess On his own part-oh, not that
death itself were better.
Yes, pain, illness-even the lsst-men-
toned catastrophe-Were better TO con-
template, she thought, than the terrible
doubt; the tangible dread, cf-she knew
not Whst-but dread that seemed 10 dry
up the spring of her existence.
Day Was stealing on at last, greyly,
with all its shadows reversed; and half
dressed she peeped out into the morning
mist.
An answer must come to-day. She had
calculated the time TO moment.
Six, seven, eight O'Clock struck.
Another hour and the postmsn would
certainly come, slowly, deliberately, gossip
ing with each friend he met, as all rural
postmen do-perhsps coming the con-
tents CT the post cards, if any there were.
At last he came in sight, and actually a
little before his usual time, too. Then
the whole vicarage seemed to resound to
the wild peal of the bell door; certainly
Amy's overcharged heart reVerberated
thereto.
She had felt too i'll, too weary, to dress
completely and face the day; but now she
spraDg from her bed, pushed back the
thick ripping hair from her
throbbing temples, and listened with
strained attention to the slow, provok-
ingly slow, steps of the approaching
with her letters upon sal
yer.
There were four. Amy darted at them,
glanced 1T them, and saw in moment
that there was not enc Of the four from
Horace. Not one yeti
Goa, merciful heaven, what can have
she walled out the instant
she was clone and her knees bent under
her.
In her brief but hitherto happy life
some fearful crisis seemed close st hand
now.
Was it some unaccountsble jealousy,
some SANDER concerning Regin8l Talbot
oh no, that was too absurd, too impos |
sible now. Anyway, her father must go
to Dublin and unravel this horrible mys-
terry, or she would die.
Was it indeed falsehood, after all?
Amy looked into her glass and thought,
Scan 1t be that the poor little face which
he so often vowed was without peer-for
him at least-has no charms for him now?
That all my little ways aud wild speeches,
which he was wont to doet on as the Joy
Of his life-sn idvllic life-sre deemed
gspid and are forgotten noW?"
CHAPTER xxx.-MGHT! i
Her father, the vicar, had heard bat re-
Gently of the dreadful catastrophe that
had happened to his old friend and Oxford
chum, the Rector OF ChilliDgton, through
the marriage OF his only daughter Claire |
to Digby Montressor; how the broken
hearted old man had been found dead in |
his bed, and Claire had disappeared, none !
knew how or Wnere: snd hence the anti |